In Half Lit Worlds
by sarramaks
Summary: Oneshot. Mac/Stella. Mac and Stella search a crime scene with a rather unusual observer present.


_This is the darkest thing I have written for a while, try it and let me know how it tastes (Okay, I've been at the gin again...)_

_A/N: I do not own CSI:NY_

In Half-Lit Worlds

The room is quiet and still, bearing a tension which you have learnt to read. A faint beam of light peers through the window, highlighting the dust that is continually moving, a mini snowstorm in this room that is scarred. You move silently, almost a ghost, a spectre, and your footsteps disturbing so little. The small sounds that resonate from your actions deafen me as I wait, and waiting is what I now do best. Here, in the silence, in this dusty room.

I watch as you crouch, looking at something that has caught your eye. Hurried fingers open your case and you pull something out that I don't recognise. I don't understand your rush, your pace, as the time for that has gone, burnt out. You shout back and the words bounce of the walls, the dust jumping like fleas. You stand and point as someone else arrives; pieces of evidence. Evidence of what? What do you hope to find within these four walls? Yourself, maybe. Something you have lost. Or are they the same thing. Tell me, what do you seek?

The other person is agitated. She moves quicker than you, maybe she already knows what she hopes to find. She looks through the papers on the desk, a fine layer of dust covering them and passes a murmured comment. You pace over there, your brow etched with frustration. You know already what they say.

I hear thunder call and the switch of light turns cold. You turn on your flashlight and scan the room once more, looking, your eyes delving into the crevasses of corners, and I hear you speak, voicing your theories. Where am I, you want to know. What became of me? I listen as you say my name, words I haven't heard since I lost track of time.

Time no longer plays a rhythm for me, I no longer dance to his tune. I can hear it still, the deep pulsating beat which stems through every breath you take, each footstep one closer to your death, to your finale. _Life is but a stage_, and you know too well that time is the theatre manager. Have you seen your own _exeunt_? You work alongside death every day, it is your trade, examining the final breath taken and I wonder what you will find when you examine mine.

Thunder has brought rain and it tumbles like a child falling, smacking hard the ground. The noise outside passes the spotlight to inside's silence. You and she do not talk, your communication is so practised that words are pointless, as were mine at the end. I needn't have screamed as there was no one to hear, and even now you can't hear me speak. It is fruitless listening, although I appreciate your efforts.

She opens drawers, taking out the things with gloved hands. Her eyes are keen, as you know, and I can see trust between you. You smile at her and for an instance I remember what it would be to feel jealousy, that anger of the frustrated heart. Have you ever felt that emotion? Or have you smothered that ability, because that's what it is. You need to feel to be alive.

I remember the rain on my skin as I walked down the road, the water touching me with cold fingers. I shivered and ran, anxious to be back in the place I called home where I would feel warmth and dry. How would we know what it is like to feel dry if we couldn't understand the opposite? How can we understand love if we have never hated? How can you stifle the very thing that makes you alive?

I remember the feel of his fingers as he tightened them around my neck. I remember the feel of another's fingers as they had loved me, the gentle breath on my neck as they whispered my name. My body was paper and his knife the scribe, the blade held tenderly as he cut deep into flesh. My first lover cut me with his tongue and then I cut his shirts. My next lover healed me with his words, soothing syllables which melted when I discovered his falsity. I breathed fire and it tasted good.

You think you have found something, a purse. But inside there is nothing and your voice echoes with dissatisfaction. She tries to pacify you, to sidetrack your disillusion, but you don't listen, even though she is right. Words are wasted; they come too freely to our mouths, and mean nothing. We can say one thing and mean the opposite. The night I died he told me he'd let me live, before the shiny blade took away my voice and never gave it back. I know that's what you are trying to do now, trying to let me speak. It is futile. You will have to find the words for yourself.

The room is stained with grey, as if the colours have been stolen, leaving everything in negative. The room has been abandoned, the light leaving it. I hear you comment on its emptiness, even though it is full of inanimate objects, each one a memory box of my final night, disfigured by my final screams. The obscenity of the act is hard to forget; even the walls have eyes.

It was a mistake. A final way to make ends meet and instead I met my end. It was no demon, just pure hatred with no balance, no scales of reason and I knew when he said my name, my true name, that the final drops of wax from my candle had fallen. I don't recall the pain, just the noiseless words from the room as it called to me, as the others called to me, and then the arctic blade, the hand that pulled it as hot as hell.

She opens the cupboard, her excitement at boiling point when she finds a finger print. You open up your computer, wanting a result and I hear you call to her, but she has seen something else. Pictures. Of me. Of all us who danced here and gave this room our final breaths.

Your frustration is broken and I see the look you throw her. But still you haven't found me and this was the last place. She wants to continue the search, but you have what you need, although more would have been nice, there isn't time.

I don't want you to leave.

The sun returns, a brief storm ended. I try to call but silence remains as it always has here. I see her smile as she bangs a wall, a hollow sound ricocheting. She pulls the brown wallpaper, revealing different shades to the wall's skin. Your face lights up and you make a call. Now you know where he put us.

She steps towards you, smiling, and I wonder if you have lost your sight. I wonder how many times you have pushed away the thought, the comprehension that pain is balanced. To experience one thing we have to know its opposite. Don't half light your world.

The door opens and another man enters. He is jubilant, although the room subdues him. He can feel its hands suffocating him. He leaves the door open, allowing the light in and the greys fade away, the dust unsettles. Tension's fingers begin to release their grip as she taps the walls again, finding all our places.

"We've got him," you say. "He's going no where."

I see your feelings on your face as they wash like a tide over you. She edges closer and I wish you had my eyes. A hand touches an arm and that is it, that is all, and for now, that will be enough.

"Well done, Stella."

"We can give them closure now, Mac. And he can't get anyone else."

I long to taste the air, to feel the rain against bare skin, to touch bare skin and know that my lover's breath belongs to me. I wish I had felt more and had never been numb, that I had boiled and bubbled far more than slowly simmering on a low heat.

I watch as you leave the room and I see how she regards you, the words her eyes say, words that would touch if you'd only feel.

Tomorrow, they will come and take down the walls, and we will finally dance like we did before, to our tune as time's has run out. We will feel the air's breath and pretend it is our lover's and we will let the rain touch us so later we can be dry.

I waited and watched and eventually you came. Do not leave her waiting as long as me. For the walls have eyes.

_I am aware that this was strange, but I would still appreciate your comments_

_Thank you for reading_

_Sarah x_


End file.
